


xi; Complications

by Theo_Thaur



Series: 31 Days of TUA Whump [11]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Diego Hargreeves-centric, Diego has a spork, Gen, I was so close to naming the fic spork, One Shot, Period-Typical Psychiatric Care, Whump, Whumptober 2020, actually none of this series has been beta read, no beta we die like ben, no mention of Lila, the second time I bring up a US president in a whumptober 2020 story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26980612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theo_Thaur/pseuds/Theo_Thaur
Summary: Whumptober 2020 submission. "No 11. PSYCH 101": Defiance, Struggling------It's Diego's second week at the psychiatric institution, and also his second week of living in the 1960s. The walls begin to close in on him and he plots a daring escape.
Series: 31 Days of TUA Whump [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951234
Kudos: 6
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	xi; Complications

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGERS: needles, medication, period typical asylum/psychiatric unit, restraint/held against will, implied minor character death.
> 
> Note: I'm not a health professional, but I did poke around as much as I could to try and be accurate about the realities of early 1960s medical/psychological care.

_ "I'm fine, mom," Diego protested, pouting and pushing away an ice pack. He was angry enough he'd had to sit out group training and stay in the kitchen with Grace instead. She just smiled, continuing patiently to put the ice pack down on his thigh.  _

_ "Now, Reginald asked me to take care of you specifically, today," she chastised, though her tone was much too sweet to be taken seriously. _

_ "I can train just fine! It isn't fair," he answered stubbornly, crossing his arms and kicking his legs a little, which dangled off the edge of his chair. "Really, lemme show you," Diego insisted, trying to spring up and out of the chair. Grace was plenty strong enough to hold him there, using as much force as she had to, pressing against his shoulder. _

_ "I don't want you on your feet, dear," Grace replied. "You were dizzy and tired on your run yesterday. Your father was worried that you'd keep going until you sprained something. He wants you to be able to tackle any mission the world may have in store," she explained. "And you need to give time for the microtears caused by running to heal. That's why your leg hurts so bad." _

_ "I don't care about that, I just-- I want--," Diego cut himself off with a huff. Grace smiled kindly. _

_ "You'll be able to see the others soon. They'll come back for you by dinner, I promise," she said, ruffling his hair with the hand that wasn't applying the ice pack. _

_ "Stop babying me," Diego retorted, making a face, but smiling a little. _

_ "Be sure to get extra rest tonight, okay? No comic books," Grace warned in a voice stern, but not too much so. "Soon enough, you'll be back to normal, but in the meantime, there is nothing shameful about taking a break. Never let anyone tell you otherwise," she paused, before making a playfully exasperated --but knowing-- expression, "not even Klaus." Diego nodded, looking up at her. _

_ "I'll get Luther back soon and kick his butt in training," Diego promised. Grace giggled. _

_ "I'm not sure your father would want you to say that," she noted. _

_ Diego's face scrunched up, "sorryyyy." _

_ "Can you hold the ice pack for me, sweetheart?" She asked gently. Diego nodded, and Grace stepped away, humming as she began upon dinner. It was a comfortable moment. He watched her and babbled about the latest installment of a comic series he'd managed to get his hands on for free time. _

\------*´｡*ﾟ

Diego poked at his dinner, finding it especially… lumpy. On the pale blue tray, on a beige table, in a beige cafeteria, sat mashed potatoes, maque choux, cornbread, and some sort of stake-ish thing. And Jell-O, naturally. It was two weeks since his admittance to the lovely psychiatric institute he was being forced to call home, two weeks exactly. He wasn't being given shaving privilege --or the ability to be around blades after he was arrested with several on his person--, so he was beginning to have less of a neatly kept stubble and more of a weird 5'o clock. Not that that was the worst of his problems, though. He shoved the perfectly rounded, harmless spork into his mashed potatoes, the texture of the mash about as inoffensive as the rest of the place. He knew he needed his strength but this was no way to live. Diego felt like he was already bouncing off the walls. Stupid housekeeper that had found him at 1026 N. Beckley Avenue, stupid police officers for not believing him when he said that President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was in trouble. They wouldn't be laughing at his seemingly unhinged behavior when the president did die, exactly when and how and where Diego had said. Although worded like that, it made him sound very suspicious… There was still a bit over a month until the assassination was supposed to happen, he had time, but didn't want to kill all of it locked up for Christ's sake!

Dr. Moncton, his newly assigned shrink, had made him answer questions typed onto a long sheet of paper. Diego had chosen randomly or made up most of his answers. Maybe Doc would see through it and figure out who he was, maybe Doc wouldn't end up giving a shit. Diego was happy to throw a wrench in the system any way he could. Besides, there was no sense trying to solve his deep-rooted childhood issues when the president of the United States was about to have a hole in his head.  _ Especially _ not after he'd been told he'd be going to group therapy. Because apparently the shrink didn't have enough time or pay to talk to them all individually. He wasn't sure why that had set him off so much, Diego figured he should be thankful he had the chance to coast by listening to everyone else share their sob stories and hopefully never being put on the hot seat. But at the same time, the expectation of talking about his feelings in front of other people was unappealing to say the least. And he didn't think opening up to a bunch of actually clinically deranged people was going to make him feel better. 

He hated the way Dr. Moncton had scribbled things down in his notebook with a pen during their first meeting. It reminded him of how Reginald had taken notes on their abilities, their  _ performance _ , as children --psychoanalyzing them, just like what he assumed Moncton was doing.

Diego grit his teeth, suddenly feeling a desire to act out. He needed to go, he wasn't supposed to be there. As it was, he hardly was given any real privileges. He didn't need to be 'rehabilitated', he needed to be freed. The extent to which he was trapped hadn't fully entered his mind, hadn't fully broken him; the first week, arguably the hardest only because it was horrible and not mundane, had been in a drug-filled haze. He was allowed to move around for lunch and quiet time, which was a step-up still from being given food in a cramped room designed to isolate until he was 'stable'. Diego jammed the bottom of the spork against the table, making the table thud slightly and momentarily getting the attention of the patients around him. Frowning, Diego set the spork down. 

A female voice spoke up over the PA system, "dinner is officially over, please stack your trays and toss all trash before waiting calmly by the doors for your orderlies." Diego stood, following along with the mass of people. He hadn't been very hungry, suspecting that the paradelhyde --or one of the other drugs in the cocktail he was being given-- was fucking with his appetite. That, or the shitty food, honestly. Three or four days ago, he'd developed a terrible tremor, and restlessness. That is, more than  _ usual _ . Diego was told it was akathisia, although like most things he was told, he didn't know what it meant. He just wanted it to go away, it produced a never ending shudder that made eating Jell-O (or anything else really) look like a joke. He tucked the spork into the waistband of his pants, hiding it. With so many patients crowding into one area, that wasn't a difficult task. He then waited with all the others to be released and supervised as he went back to his ward for sleep. Diego was expectant of more medication before he was allowed to rest, and frankly he felt he needed it, as he was nowhere near tired. His bed was in a long row with the other patients', from people only slightly newer than him, to career patients. As was expected, a nurse came to him with a pill. Amobarbital, another name he couldn't readily attach a meaning to. He liked it because it wasn't a shot, and although he had trouble pronouncing it, felt it was important to remember. It gave Diego some sense of control to at least know the name of what was being put into his body. Tucking himself into starched covers, he drifted off.

  
  


\------*´｡*ﾟ

It was morning, and he was washed --he managed to conceal the spork--, and then set to wait for breakfast after an examination. Breakfast was just as bad as dinner, bland yogurt and a mix of fruits that somehow  _ didn't  _ go together. He was tasked, for the morning, with sweeping as a means to entertain himself. Thrilling. Diego was completely sure he was actually supposed to do this because they just didn't have a big enough staff, but he knew better than to say anything, picking up his broom and getting to work. The resentment he felt made him work slowly; even if a part of him itched to stay on his feet he'd be damned if he worked harder than he had to for that hellhole. Apparently if he was good he'd be allowed to join art therapy in two week's time. He'd never been good with art, but that easily seemed better than pushing dust around with arms that quivered at every moment. 

Diego used his sweeping as an excuse to get a look at the place, thereby satisfying his desire to be suspicious at every moment possible. There was nothing less threatening than someone pushing a broom in the corner. Well, at least when compared to someone who'd been holding knives. Which, that someone had  _ also  _ been Diego. He'd kept himself busy by eavesdropping in the commons, nothing to report, when something very strange did start happening. Diego watched a woman on the far end of the room --a patient in all white--, maybe ten years older, began to clutch at her throat, shaking her shoulders. He opened his mouth to say something, but an orderly had already begun shouting for a doctor. It sounded dire, considering the orderly actually sounded like he cared rather than like an asshole. They usually sounded like assholes, from experience. Then, Diego heard something else entirely new from the orderly: 'laryngeal dystonia'. She turned slightly, and Diego got a better look at the woman's face. If he could've, if his muscles hadn't been twitching, he would've frozen in shock. Diego knew that face, she was like him. Kind of. A schizophrenic probably, Dr. Moncton had pointed her out because she was in the therapy group he was to be joining shortly. And there she was, shaking and rasping, clawing at her throat. They were all being poisoned. 

Diego needed no further proof, the wooden handle of the broom fell to the floor right where he dropped it, as he began on a mad dash through the hallways. He was certain he could make it, surely they were too distracted by the lady. Diego was in good enough shape, having not been held too long, and the spasms in his muscles actually made him feel like he could run forever. Pale peachy walls and dark-wood doors flashed before his eyes as he ran, but he'd passed by only a few figures before there was yelling again. But this time, it carried down the hallway, directed right towards him.

"Stop that right now!"

He kept going, slowing only briefly to pull out the spork, holding it in his hand as he might a knife, the practically useless prongs pointed away from himself. A door suddenly opened, and although it didn't open in his direction, a tall orderly emerged. Diego kept running. He knew he was getting closer, because the walls were bare of any motivational posters or notices. How he would get through the barrier between visitors and patients, he didn't know, but he was confident he could just keep going. But the tall orderly was gaining on him, Diego had scarcely glanced over his shoulder when a hand caught at the leg of one pant. Diego nearly fell forward, his leg having been raised in the dash as he'd kicked it up from the ground. He swayed on one leg like a flamingo, having not had enough momentum to rip through the thick cotton. Still on one foot, Diego turned as best he could, raising his spork and aiming for the eyes. It was no good, the orderly evaded, and as a few more staff gathered, he was restricted at the hands, the spork removed from his person. Diego grunted, trying to break himself free and use any of the electricity he felt in his muscles to do that. He couldn't run, the hallway effectively blocked off by orderlies who stood in front of him with somber looks. Diego found he didn't care, closing his eyes and bracing himself as he tried to ram past them. They gave, slightly, and Diego didn't know if it was intentional or not, but the force he used to break past them was too much. He tipped over, trying to catch himself but unable to balance or catch himself with his arms. He fell flat on his face, the humiliation hitting him first as his cheeks burnt.

Eventually, two pairs of arms picked him up, and Diego writhed, feeling warm blood begin to drip from his nose. "I'm not supposed to be here! Your president is gonna be killed in a month and it's  _ me  _ you care about?!" He protested, nearly frothing at the mouth. He could taste the blood then. A nurse approached, holding a large needle. Diego stilled, looking away. He couldn't do this, couldn't let himself be caught. He had to keep going because if he didn't, JFK would die, and knowing it was coming but not doing anything was nothing short of treason in Diego's mind. There was no choice  _ but  _ to do it, he couldn't stay in the psychiatric institute forever and waste away. Diego had a family out there somewhere, and a duty to protect whatever time he was in. If his family wasn't there to help him, he'd just do it on his own like he'd done for so long. 

The needle pushed into his skin, into the muscle of his bicep. Diego flailed in one last-ditch effort. He tried to focus his fear, his pain, and hold himself accountable as he always did, to more than he could possibly take on at once. He willed himself to be free, trying to put everything on the line for it, but all he did was manage to cause tears to prick the corners of his eyes as the inevitability of failure set in. It was no good, his mind was already beginning to fog over despite the sharp intrusion into his skin. But at least he was quickly losing the presence of mind to feel self-conscious about getting teary-eyed in front of the orderlies.

His family, he did have one, right?

Dr. Moncton's voice came to mind, and he sighed, relaxing into the warm darkness.  _ "The sooner you allow yourself to let go of these notions about your past, Diego, the sooner you can heal." _


End file.
